


No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: Jason Todd fics [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Jason's death, Blood, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, First Kiss, Guns, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd is Robin, Pre-New 52, mentions of classical literature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:29:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: You fall in love with Jason Todd, only for him to be murdered after he goes looking for his mother. After several years, a new vigilante comes into Gotham, and you can't help but feel like he's a little bit too familiar to you.





	1. He Gives Me Toothache Just From Kissing Me

It was late, so late that you could feel your eyelids fluttering shut as your elbow dug into your calculus homework, crumpling the sheet beyond comprehension. You would normally be asleep by now, but the need to finally finish all of your work had ensured that you had stayed up for several more hours than usual and this extra time awake was definitely playing on your body. You hadn’t been this tired since… well ever. It was overwhelming really, head feeling heavier and heavier with every second until you jolted yourself back awake. The need to sleep combating with the need to finish ensured that you had been reading and rereading the same question for at least half an hour. The sound of knocking against the window was what finally drew you back to reality, head turning quickly to see the domino mask-clad face of your best friend behind the glass, dark hair merging into the pitch black of the night sky behind him. 

Jason had shown up at Gotham Academy two years ago, after being taken in by Bruce Wayne, which had created a small amount of levity for you. Before Jason, you had been the New Kid at school- the new kid who wasn’t as rich as the rest. You were only at Gotham Academy because your grandmother had died, and in her will had left a fair amount of money to be spent on your education. That had been a bad idea. The other kids had treated you like shit for months until Jason showed up, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him despite your relief. No matter how shitty the other kids had been to you- and how much you had wanted them to stop treating you poorly- you didn’t want someone else to take your place as their new target, rather them to just lose interest and leave you alone. Your English Teacher had brought him forward on the first day, telling him to say something about himself but all that you were able to do was pay attention to how he looked. He was smaller than most of the kids in your class (something you had later found out was from malnutrition), with wide blue eyes which easily turned to catlike slits when he was angry- which seemed to be often, and messy curls of soot-coloured hair. He was cute, in a sort of sad way. You found out later from the whispers of some of the other kids that Jason had been taken in by Bruce Wayne, that he was from the Narrows- not that they described it like that. Street Rat was their usual terminology, and it made you hate them all the more. That was probably why, a few days later, when a kid called him a charity case in the middle of the cafeteria, you had decided that the only means of stopping the bullying once and for all was to punch the Bully in the face. 

The bullying subsided for both of you after that, and in its place, you had gained Jason’s friendship, something that seemed somewhat impossible to anyone else. With Jason’s friendship came a fierce sort of protection, he had seemingly decided to become your own personal guard dog, protecting you as much as he possibly could. You notice the bruises after a few weeks, blooming on his legs and arms as if they had come from fights, the split and bruised knuckles such an often-seen part of his appearance that you became confused when they weren’t present. They make your mind race through all the possibilities on the planet; that the bruises are from falling, the split knuckles from some sort of secret fight club, because the alternative is too horrible for you to think about. The truth came out after a year when he finally confessed to you that he was Batman’s sidekick, not that you believed it at first. You only knew it was true when he came to your window later that night in uniform and grinned at you, face lit up and eyes shining mischievously in a way that just screamed ‘I told you so.’ It made his protective nature make sense, but also meant that the bruises that littered his arms and legs were was less worrying than you had previously thought. He happily shows you his mask while hidden away in the confines of your bedroom while he ‘showed you his moves’- which actually means that he showed off some sort of confused air karate before saying he couldn’t show his ‘real moves’ because they’d scare you off. You had to laugh at that and flop onto the bed, his mask between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. Robin. Jason. It seemed almost absurd. 

Now, he leans against the window frame as you pushed the glass upwards to allow him into the room, his lips turned up in a small, sad sort of smile as he climbs in. He’s taller now, finally taller than you, and broader too. The sadness is newer though, made even clearer as he peels the mask off of his face and stomps over to your bed (something that would have been comical with his scaled shorts and pixie boots if it wasn’t for how upset he seems). You reach out almost subconsciously and pull him into a gentle hug, his body rigid as your arms wind around his frame; he feels safe and warm even in his ridiculous costume, and your eyes slowly slip shut until you feel something warm and wet hit your cheek. Your [E/C] eyes look up and see the tears dripping down his cheeks. 

“…Jase?” Your voice is soft, to try and avoid the risk of your parents hearing you talking and coming in, but as your eyes glance at the red neon numbers on the digital alarm clock you decide it’s too late for your parents to be awake.

“Bat benched me.” He says softly and slides down onto the bed. “He benched me. I…”

“Oh, Jay…” You whisper and hold his cheek softly. Him crying isn’t exactly new, Jason cries whenever he’s angry or excited- you can’t help but think that he must feel things so strongly that it’s overwhelming for him, and that’s why it’s never stopped making your heart clench. Sitting beside him, cheek cupped in your hand seems a good way to calm him, so you gently wipe the heavy flow of tears away. “He… it isn’t permanent right? I mean, you’re still Robin.” You whisper to try and calm him down, but his thin fingers wrap around your wrist. His grip is tight, even in spite of his green gloves, and it makes you flinch slightly from the unexpected display of strength.

“…Doesn’t matter. Cause I’m not stickin’ around.” His voice is louder than before, more conspiratorial as he leans into you, the corner of his mouth turned up in what is either a small smirk or as a means of keeping from crying any further.

“What do you mean, not sticking around?” You ask worriedly, your thumbs stilling from wiping his cheeks. That could mean anything, but you found yourself silently praying that it didn’t mean that he was running away or anything stupid like that. 

“…My mom, I’m gonna go find my mom.” You turn your head in absolute confusion, lip caught between your teeth. 

“I thought you said she was-”

“Dead? That’s what I thought, but she wasn’t my mom.” He says voice caught somewhere between feverish and overjoyed. “I’m going to find my real mom. She’s in Ethiopia, so I’m gonna go find her.” 

You know it’s selfish, but your jaw tightens and your hand shifts away from his face, almost angry that he would leave you, but his tight grip on your arm doesn’t stop or even loosen. You don’t want him to leave, and it’s cruel and selfish and harsh, so you swallow down that negative feeling and force a smile. His mom. How could you be so cruel as to tell him not to try and find his mother, just so you can have him around? So you don’t, choosing instead to nod and tilt your head. 

“That’s… fantastic, Jay. You need to find her.” His mom. Of course, he’d leave to find his Mom, even if it meant travelling all that way, but your heart still throbs painfully. You smile and gnaw at the soft flesh of your lip, too busy focusing on trying to keep positive that you don’t notice how Jason’s eyes flit down to your lips and how he moves closer to you, don’t notice how his hand slides up from your wrist to your upper arm until he pulls you into a kiss. 

It’s awkward, mainly because you hadn’t been expecting it in any way shape or form. Kissing had never been something you spent much time thinking about other than in the confines of in romantic movies and classical literature; kissing was always for girls who look like Molly Ringwald to you, or boys like Paul Rudd in Clueless, or for heroines like Elizabeth Bennett or Emma Woodhouse, not for you. But here you are, sitting on your bed in a t-shirt and pyjama shorts with your best friend, clad in his crime-fighting get up, kissing you like he thinks it’s his only chance to do so. His lips are cold and wind-chapped, moving slowly against your own, and working your lip free from the tight grip of your teeth. You finally respond after a minute or two, just before Jason could pull away, lips pressing back against his own which made him grin against you, his hand sliding up into your hair. It’s clumsy, but its soft and sweet and so very Jason that you can’t help but think that it’s the perfect first kiss. Equal parts romantic and soft to awkward and unaware. It’s not like the kisses from the movies you like or the novels you read or even anything like the kisses you had seen from public displays of affection that normally had your eyes rolling. It’s gentle in ways you aren’t used to. He pulls back to smile at you before brushing his lips against yours once more before you tug him back into another kiss, almost unwilling to let him go because you know if he stops kissing you he’ll leave.

After a few more minutes Jason breaks the kiss with a breathless smile, kisses your forehead and smiles. “I’m coming back for you, Okay? I promise. I’ll be back.” He kisses you chastely- little more than the smallest press of chapped lips against yours- but stops before you’re able to return it, then stands up and walks towards the window. “I’ll be back. You won’t even have enough time to miss me, and when I’m back, I’ll take you to Pauli’s for a date.” He smiles softly and gives you enough time to smile and nod excitedly. You watch as gets closer before your fingers close around the thin chain of the necklace that your grandmother had bought you before she died. 

“Jase!” You call after him before he’s able to get his leg over the window-frame, rushing to him. Undoing the clasp, you gently pull it off then grab his wrist and force the fabric of his glove down, you slowly wind the dainty chain around his wrist and smile, tugging the glove back up. 

“I can’t-” He starts but you cut him off with a soft kiss. 

“Give it back when you come home, yeah? Now you have to.” You hope that you don’t sound too desperate, and from the way that he smiles back at you, it’s safe to assume you don’t. He climbs away, and you sigh softly, leaning against the window ledge as he disappears into the night. You eventually stop staring off into the darkness to try and get some sleep, walking back to the bed and lay back. But now sleep refuses to come, so you let yourself drift off into a fantasy of the oncoming date; how much fun that date will be, what you should wear, how long you think you’ll have to wait for him to come home. You fall asleep with that on your mind, eyes slipping shut with your lips turned up in a peaceful smile. 

But he never comes home.


	2. There's Something Tragic About You

You find out that he’s dead at the same time everyone else in your class does when the principal comes in to English class to share the awful news. You hate to admit it to yourself, but as soon as he walks in you know he’s there to talk about Jason, but never in a thousand years had you thought that he was going to say that Jason was dead. According to him, Jason had died when a bomb had gone off in the hotel where he had been staying; some freak terror attack. Seemed to come out of nowhere, there was nothing that could have been done, he says in a voice authoritative enough to make you angry but filled with enough condolence for you to wasn’t to sob. While everyone else whispers about terrorism and why Jason was all the way in Ethiopia; your head bows, hair falling around your face as you allow the tears to fall. He’s gone. No matter how many whispers about him and how weird it was that he was dead would bring him back, no matter how many comments about terrorism, about bombs. He’s dead. Jason, your Jason, brilliant Jason. Dead. The only thought that comes to you beyond your comprehension of his death is that whatever deity lives up above you must have a sick sense of humour, as your tear-filled eyes stare down at your copy of The Great Gatsby. Of course. Two dead Jays. The rest of the day is a blur of incomprehensible colours and sounds, while you’re caught in a headspace somewhere between dazed and haunted. The kids who had once bullied you instead give you a wide berth, even they seem to grasp that right now isn’t the right time. No one speaks to you all day, and just the concept of being in the cafeteria makes you want to puke. Eating is a task that seems impossible and besides, there’s no one there you want to sit with. Instead, you timidly walk to Jason’s locker, unlock it, and stare blankly at the locker, making a mental note of the contents. Your eyes glide across an old red jacket that you hadn’t seen in months. You recall making a comment about the jacket and how much you liked it, and in a moment of sudden desperation you grab it and pull it on, revelling in the feeling of being surrounded by something that had once been Jason’s. [E/C] Eyes slide across a copy of pride and prejudice, and your fingers gently pick it up before closing the locker quickly. You know theft is wrong, and under normal circumstances you wouldn’t have done such a thing, but you can’t lose everything of him. You need something to remember him by, and it might be sick, but you need it to cope.

 

The funeral is unbearable, sitting beside your parents on a hard pew in an icy church in front of the coffin that held the boy who said he’d come home was hell, like a nightmare come true. Before Jason, the only person who you had ever known who had died was your grandmother, and the bracelet she had given you had been passed onto Jason, and like a curse it had taken Jason from you too. You had spent days trying to convince yourself that it was only a fear toxin-induced hallucination, that Scarecrow had dropped some sort of bomb of gas over the city, leaving you to deal with the contents of your own mind, but no. Jason is dead. Gone forever, and you’re stuck here without him. Your parents hadn’t known Jason as anything more than ‘that boy who comes over sometimes’, but they sit silent besides you, and you’re grateful for that. You’re sure they don’t know what to say beyond useless words of apology, but they’re there and that means more than you could ever explain. Other than your family and a few of the teachers who had liked Jason, there is only one person there you even recognise, Bruce Wayne. You’d never said much more than a few words to Bruce while Jason was alive, only his butler who had taken a shine to you, but from the look of utter sadness that Mister Pennyworth had given you onto your way into the church you didn’t doubt that Bruce and his butler had felt something like you did. It felt strange to think of Batman as a creature who could mourn, but orphaned Bruce Wayne’s son being murdered? That was something you could never comprehend if you lived a hundred lifetimes. There’s a boy who looks barely older than 18 or so, surrounded by other people that age, dressed in black with his eyes bloodshot. He looks almost strikingly like an older Jason and you almost call out before it occurs to you after a few seconds that he’s Dick Grayson, Bruce’s first ward. Jason had once confessed to feeling in the shadow of him, both as a Robin and as Bruce’s son, and yet here he is crying for him. You don’t approach either after the service or at the graveside. What could you possibly say to them that wouldn’t sound trite or all too familiar? What do you say to people who already lost their families and just lost another member of the one they had tried to create for themselves? It feels strange as you stare down at his headstone, fifteen-year-old boys shouldn’t be dead and buried. Jason shouldn’t be. 

 

The sound of the alarm makes your eyes slip open, an arm reaches out almost automatically to grab your phone and turn it off, bones cracking while you roll onto your back and check the screen for any new messages. Eyes squinting from the sudden bright light in the otherwise dimly lit room, you sigh softly and rake your fingers through your hair, a text from your mum hoping that you’re safe and happy. You let out a quiet groan before shuffling to your feet, making a mental note for yourself to call her when you’re more awake while padding into the kitchen as you crack your back, then turn on the radio as you begin to wake up at the sound of other voices. You curse at the sound of the news, almost sure that you had left it on the music station last night. The news, especially in Gotham was never good; there was a reason you don’t read the Gazette (other than the fact that it’s a rag). Fingers enclose around a box of cereal as the radio anchor talks about a crime scene in a warehouse near the docks, pouring the brightly coloured pebbles into a bowl while she talks about a duffel bag filled with decapitated heads. Somewhere in your sleep-dazed mind reminds you that you should be disgusted by the waste of life, but the rest of you reminds you that this is Gotham. If you weren’t willing to be surrounded with murder and crime you should have moved to Metropolis or Coast City for college, but you were still here, and you wonder if that says more about you than the city that you’re willing to stay there. Your mum had wanted you to either go to a new city for college or live at home with her, but while you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Gotham the prospect of living with your parents sounds hellish. You sit on the counter, eating tiredly as you half listen to an interview with Commissioner Gordon caught somewhere between too hungry to stop eating and too tired to get up and turn it off. Mumbling bitterly under your breath about how Gordon and his cops aren’t going to do shit and how they never do shit, because they just leave all the hard work for Batman and each new Robin, you force yourself off the counter and off to get a shower and get dressed for work. 

The walk to work is short, but Gotham is cold enough even in spring for you to feel uncomfortable during the walk. It’s freezing, a hard blow of the wind making your coat billow around your thighs, and the only positive you can think of is that it isn’t raining but as if someone above had been listening, a small droplet of water hits the tip of your nose, and then your forehead. Fuck. Of course. You let out a quiet groan and begin jogging, weaving in and out of other pedestrians and then cars as you bolt across the road. There’s always a strange sort of discomfort that comes from living in Gotham, probably a result of it’s wet and cold environment and the fact that it’s close enough to an Asylum for its inmates to break out and live amongst you before attacking, but today’s discomfort comes from something different than the usual. You turn your head to try to gauge just what it is exactly as it hits you, it feels like being watched. Turning your head back to see what’s in front of you, you try to ignore the feeling before turning on your heel to see if you can work out whether that feeling is right, but Gotham streets are so packed you could be stalked all the way from your apartment and have no clue. That thought makes your stomach drop quickly and because of that you can’t help but feel relieved at the sight of the familiar red neon lettering on top of the diner. 

Pauli’s has hardly changed since you were in high school, still old looking and homely, with the red and white checked metal tables and peeling vinyl on the seats of the booths, spacious and claustrophobic in a way that makes you sad, but every single time you enter it’s with a smile and today is no exception. The fifties aesthetic was one that you understood the appeal of without ever really being into under usual circumstances, but Pauli’s was different for you, with the hand-drawn posters and bright colours. Hooking your jacket up on your usual peg by the door, you let yourself smile at one of the other waitresses (an older woman who had taken you happily and willingly under her wing after remembering you coming in near-daily during your school days) and tie your apron around your waist. Working in Pauli’s while you’re in college had seemed almost obvious, like something destined to be: maybe it was a subconscious thing where you felt the need to come back to atone for the date that never happened, or just to return to something familiar in a city that looks more and more alien to you with every other day. The old diner meant more to you than you would have confessed; with its familiar slightly greasy smell and its regular customers and it helps on the long shifts after classes, when people who you see almost daily smile up at you while you fill up their coffee or take their orders, asking to make sure that you’re okay. Gotham might have spent a lifetime making you harder than you would have been anywhere else; but the people, hardened in the same ways that you were, had done a pretty good job of reminding you that normal, everyday people were still good… and sometimes, after looking up at the flicking TV over the counter while it showed reports of costumed criminals, you need reminding. You often find your eyes glancing to your old booth, and then to the old black and white tiles around it when shifts get slow in between intermittent glances to the clock on the wall surrounded by bright red neon letters, COFFEE. You pick up a pot of coffee, and turn around, noticing when a cop lifts a hand to indicate that he either needed a refill or wanted to order, you clench your jaw before sighing and forcing a smile and then walk over. 

When you finally leave work the rain has stopped but the cold has increased fourfold as if to compensate for it, and your candy-coloured uniform barely does anything to keep you warm even with your jacket. It’s almost unbearable, even with your hands shoved into your pockets, and that overwhelming feeling of someone watching you is back full throttle. The bright orange fluorescent lights overhead mean that at least you know that the way home isn’t entirely dark, but it feels more like a clinical sort of light, the orange not the same warm colour as the street lights in other cities instead seeming cold. Gotham in daylight is like walking through any big city, but at night the city became something more… something darker. A labyrinth of winding streets, all smog filled and cold, with monsters hiding around every corner. All at once you’re struck with an understanding why your mother always said that you shouldn’t be out in the city after dark. You try to swallow that insecurity and slip down into an alley, your usual shortcut home, and finally start to relax at the familiarity. It’s short-lived. Walking slowing, you hear more than one set of footsteps coming from behind you and you begin cursing under your breath, and before you can even begin to speed up you feel the sharp chill of a blade against your neck. 

“Give us all you got.” The man hisses into your ear, breath hot and predatory against your skin and you can’t even begin to disguise the cringe that overcomes you. You know that you should be terrified but all that you can think is that his breath is gross. Two more men walk around the two of you and leer down at you as your hand slides into the pocket of your coat, but then scowl as you reveal the contents to them; a coffee-shop loyalty card, a dollar fifty in change and four hair ties. You’re a poor college student; you don’t know why anyone would choose to mug you, there’s nothing that you could possibly give to them that they would want. No watch, no jewellery, no phone, no wallet to hand over. You almost smile at the fact that you forgot your phone until it dawns on you that you have no way of calling for help and not getting your throat slashed for the attempt. Shit. Eyes flitting around the alleyway, you try to make out if there is a way for you to escape, but to no avail as one of the two men surges closer to make sure that you weren’t holding out on them. His hand scrabbles around in the empty pocket before grabbing at your thigh through the thin fabric, causing you to let out a loud yelp of anger while his face leans in closer to yours. Your mouth opens for you to tell him to get his hand off you but all that comes out is a loud scream as a bullet flies through the side of his head, sending a mess of blood and liquefied brain splattering onto the dirty ground. The man who had been holding onto you suddenly throws you to the ground beside the body, your hand barely missing the blood, as he and his one remaining accomplice run off. 

The orange light from the streetlight makes the blood look almost black, like some sort of tar that was making its way closer and closer to you with every second. You shuffle backwards quickly, slicing your hand open in the scramble to get away from the gore, only to slam against something warm and hard. Legs, you realise as you turn your head. Leaning over you is a man, tall and broad, clad in leather and a helmet that glints crimson even with the darkness and streetlights. The smell of gunpowder radiates from him; from the still smoking gun at his side. 

“You always get the attention of dangerous pricks?” The voice that comes from the helmeted man is heavily modulated, sounding more like the sort of robots that you’d find in a Sci-fi B-movie crossed over with static and buzzing and it would be almost funny if it wasn’t for the gun clenched in his hand and the fact he had just murdered someone in front of you. You assumed the modulation was there for a reason similar to the reason why Batman deepened his voice on patrol, being a Vigilante in Gotham was dangerous enough: but one who had no problem with killing? That meant that more than one type of person would be looking for him and a voice works as a means of finding a person. But hell, in Gotham it could just mean that the man in front of you actually was some sort of cyborg; like Arnie in Terminator, or like RoboCop. You stare up at him from your place on the floor, silent and scared witless, eyes flitting from the lifeless mask and the gun. “…Well?” 

“…No?” You ask rather than state while getting to your feet, holding your injured hand awkwardly before shoving it into your pocket.“…You just killed-” 

“Put down.” Was the mechanical response, as if talking about a rabid animal rather than a human being (albeit a scummy one), and that makes you step back quickly. “…You’re welcome [Y/N].” Blinking rapidly, a droplet of rain hits your jaw, then another on your shoulder, then the top of your head, before the downpour begins once more. Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your forehead, and you let out a shaking sigh. You turn on heel from the helmeted man then run home as fast as your legs can carry you. It’s only once you’re home-with every door and window locked, sat on your couch in an old t-shirt and sweatpants while drying your hair with a towel, that you’re suddenly struck with a question as you place a bandaid onto the palm of your hand.

How did he know your name?


	3. Honey, You're Familiar

As always, Gotham is a mess of wind and rain and darkness at six thirty, but for once you’re able to find yourself watching the rainfall from the warm, dry, safety of the diner. It feels like God was throwing you some sort of bone after four years of questionable luck that had been started by Jason’s death, and if you were more of a romantic you’d think it was due to it being Jason’s birthday, but you’ve learned a long time ago that romanticism has no place in your life. The pattering of rain against glass makes you smile as you sit in the old corner booth of Pauli’s, textbook and notebook on the table in front of you beside the plate of slowly chilling fries- gently nibbling on them while you continue making notes for your next class. Pauli’s is nowhere near as quiet as the library, but its more familiar to you and it comes with the perks of cheaper food on your off-day, and you’d much rather be in Pauli’s if you’re honest, especially in your booth by the window. It started raining after you had arrived, meaning that the old, stolen red jacket that rests on the pealing vinyl seat beside you is dry, and it has given you a reason to stay beyond the need to continue with your work. The gentle flickering of the florescent lights overhead and the sound of the old jukebox, hidden away in the corner by the counter while it plays songs from the eighties, coupled witht the sound of the other patrons talking around you help to keep you grounded even if it keeps distracting you from your literature essay: with your head bobbing along to Africa as you chew on a fry rather than continuing to write, wondering more about whether or not you’d rather hot chocolate or a milkshake than the subtle meanings behind the hidden subtlety to the ‘romance’ element of Wuthering Heights. Some of the more regulars had smiled at you or said hello to you on their way past, and it’s appreciated, makes you feel like you’re important to them, or at least worth remembering. You let yourself relax back against the pillowed seat of the booth, fingers digging through your jacket pockets for your wallet to pay for the milkshake. Your professor is gonna pitch a fit if it’s late, but right at this present moment, you can’t seem to find it in yourself to give much of a shit. Since your attempted mugging a month ago you’ve tried to keep yourself as distracted as humanly possible to keep from thinking about it again, and working was doing an excellent job of distracting you, but it feels nice to finally be distracted from working again. Food, warmth, and being away from your apartment is nice; especially after waking up the other day to a window you knew you had locked being wide open. Maybe you’re just paranoid, but being alone in your apartment right now sounds awful.   
Outside of the window Gotham is strangely beautiful, through the heavy rainfall flashes of red and blue neon from street-signs paint the wet streets with colour, letting their shine and brightness flare off of the rivulets of rain running down the window so that the once dark and dismal city is practically technicolour, and there’s something unearthly about it in the darkness. You could almost tell yourself that the city that you live in isn’t basically the crime capital of the world, well known for having a grown man dress up like a bat in order to fight criminals, and that idea of normality is nice for the moment being. You catch yourself contemplating what it must be like to live in some city that’s safe and warm with no superpowered villains running around only to remind yourself of how much you really do love the rain and darkness, and that it’s safe and wonderful and what the hell would you do without the criminality to complain about while you work or talk to the other kids in your college classes. Nothing. That’s what. Say what you want about how awful it is to live in Gotham (and you do, often) if the criminality of the city did anything it brought people together; nothing like spending every second day of February avoiding any form of public place with anything valuable for fear of Two-Face and grumbling about it, or communal complaints whenever snow appears on the fourth of July because Mister Freeze is on the loose again. It’s strangely nice. On occasion, you wonder if that kind of connection is present in places with significantly fewer crimes, do people in Metropolis let out communal sighs and grumbles about their insurance together when Mr Mxyzptlk’s on the loose the way you all do whenever reports of Poison Ivy breaking out of Gotham start to pour in? You tap your pen against your bottom lip before dropping it and the pretence of writing entirely, opting to just chew on a fry.  
After your milkshake comes to your table, you sit there re-reading what there is of your essay and cringing when you realise that all you’ve written is all of about three hundred words of a twenty thousand word essay. Damn it. Is it too much to hope for Scarecrow to break out of Arkham so that class will be cancelled? You’d rather risk Fear Toxin than your Professor’s wrath. Fingers drum quickly against the paper covered surface of the tabletop. You’re fucked, and you doubt you can use the age-old 'I was mugged and they stole my lit essay’ excuse on your hard-ass professor. Faking illness to buy yourself an extra day or two seems like the only feasible answer without being a straight-up liar. Cracking your knuckles and then your back, you rest your head on the pile of paperwork, hands covering your eyes for a few seconds. You push yourself up after a few minutes of self-pity, and try to scribble down any nonsense that might help to bulk it out. Your ears perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching your booth, but you only look up from your non-existent essay at the sound of a distinctly male, and vaguely familiar voice.   
“Can I sit here?” The man in front of you is tall, almost imposingly so, with black hair swept across his forehead which is broken through by a shock of white hair. You almost stare at the white locks before your eyes slide down to his eyes, almost shockingly green and framed by long eyelashes, and his freckled cheeks. His skin is tanned and it makes his dark hair and red hoodie stand out, and he smiles slightly at you. You almost whisper Jason’s name before realising that it’s impossible, and look away; taking in the diner behind him to see all of the full booths before nodding slightly before looking back down at your sheets. Damn it. Handsome black-haired men had become your type so long ago you assume you can relate it to Jason, something about trying to live what you and Jason could have had. It’s pathetic and that’s probably why you stopped even thinking about dating a long time ago, leaving you to dedicate yourself to your studies, especially when you're putting yourself into crippling student debts. After you nod he sits on the other side of the booth while you try to focus on working again so that you aren’t staring creepily at the handsome man across from you. To his credit, he doesn’t attempt conversation with you and just sits there looking at his phone and sipping at whatever was in his mug, and you begin writing more than you probably have in the last three hours, spurred on by his presence and not wanting to make this awkward. It’s strangely easy, with his silence and only the sound of a cheesy romantic ballad as background music, and it’s… nice. The sound of the George Michael’s voice is relaxing and you stop writing to tap your pencil against the table once more, searching for the right words to write but none seem to come so instead you reach for your book. Flitting through the copy of Wuthering Heights, you let your eyes scan across passages about wet and windy moors and tragic romance while searching out something that could help you but nothing stands out. He’s more myself than I am. Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same. You find yourself rolling your eyes at the melodrama of it all. You like to think of yourself as a strong and independent person, and the idea of your life completely shutting down because of some abusive tool that the book romanticises makes you annoyed.   
You don’t notice it but the man across the table from you smiles slightly at your annoyed face and then feverish scribbling of notes on the side of your copy of the text, lips turned up into something soft and sweet. The smile is soft and he lets himself take in all of your features as best he can, he takes another sip of his coffee and his face is neutral once more, as if afraid that you would look up and notice but you don’t; too busy with your own indigence. He watches as you smooth your hair behind your ear and tilt your head, continuing in your angered writing. He pushes the sleeve of his red hoodie up beyond his wrist and lets out a gentle and resigned sigh.   
When you finally look up from your scribbling, the man is gone and you drop your pencil at his absence, raking a finger through your hair and cracking your back before looking out of the window once more. A wave of tiredness crashed over you and you let out a quiet moan, then finish the last of your milkshake and fries before looking out of the window. The raining has stopped and you decide that now is as good a time as any to finally head home; less than content with the work that you’ve done, but completely unwilling to write any more. As reluctant as you are to head home after the window experience, you can’t stop your tiredness without caffeinating yourself and you don’t really want to do that. You collect up your papers and begin to shove them messily into your bag before stopping dead in your tracks at the sight of something that you never thought you’d see again: your grandmother’s necklace, placed delicately in front of your glass as if you had put it there yourself. Your eyes widen and you only just manage to keep from staggering backwards, torn somewhere between horror and confusion at the sight of the silver chain glinting brightly against the dark table. The necklace is clean, with two slight chinks in the chain that look like they had come from being wound around a wrist an angle for too long, and it’s tiny bird pendant in the centre, it’s red jewel still perfect, shining and perfect set against the silver. Your fingers ghost around the chain, almost unwilling to accept it’s anything more than some sort of dream until you actually touch the warm metal. Warm. Your eyes dart around the diner to try and look for the man who had been in front of you to try and demand how he had the necklace, but he isn’t there. You start to worry about whether or not he had even been there. Once you’ve put the rest of your work into your bag, you pick up the chain and turn it over multiple time between your fingers. The warmth of the chain is almost enough to make you feel sick. After a few minutes of just holding onto the chain and staring down at it, you shove it into your bag along with your jacket before bolting off out of the diner.   
How the fuck is your necklace here while Jason’s dead?


	4. I'll Be Home With You

You’re sure you either have some sick grave digging stalker on the loose, or the man was someone you know and has a fucking evil sense of humour. You spend the last of your days off of work not touching the necklace, which you’re almost completely sure is your old one. It even has the same tiny E stamp on the bottom of the bird’s silver body and chinks in the dainty silver chain as if it had spent too long in the same position: like wound around the wrist of a dead boy. It stays on your bedside table, ignored in favour of finally finishing your essay, going to university, and pretending that you’re perfectly fine when you meet with your parents at a cafe to catch up. They say you look sick, paler than they’re used to seeing you and skinnier too, you can’t even disagree with them. You’ve felt ill ever since the necklace showed up in your paperwork, like the mere knowledge of it not being on Jason’s body, buried under the headstone you’ve visited every year, is making you ill. You spend those days looking for the man who was there at the same time that the necklace reappeared. But there’s no sign of him. Even after you go to work again, you never see that man. No handsome black haired, blue eyed, tanned, grave digging stalkers. You wonder to yourself if that’s even worse than actually seeing him. Not seeing him doesn’t mean that he isn’t ever present, and ever watching, just masked by something that keeps him from you. When you mention his presence to your co-workers, they assume you’re asking because you had a crush on him- one of the downfalls of working in a diner where most of the waitstaff is more than double your age was that everyone assumed because you were young and single you would have a crush on all the handsome customers or, worse still, would want to be set up with their son or nephew- and so you just give up on it. They can’t understand what you mean without you showing them the necklace; but even still they would never be able to understand what it means without you talking about Jason, and talking about Jason makes this real, makes it real that it’s likely that someone has dug up his grave and removed your necklace, but also that the person who did so knew it was your chain and pendant. The most invasive thought comes in the night when you can’t sleep; if they took your nana’s silver necklace, what else could they have taken. After a week or so, you finally pick up the necklace again and fasten it around your neck, letting your fingers ghost along the chinks and try not the think about the boy who used to have this around his wrist, and why it isn’t there now. You don’t succeed. 

After several days pass, you hear a report on the news about a seeming gang rivalry gone sour- to the point where twelve decapitated heads had been found in a warehouse near the docks, each of them belonging to some lowlife drug dealer. When you first hear of it on the radio, in your apartment in the early morning with only your coffee cup and printed out Wuthering Heights essay for company, you have no doubt in your mind that the Red-Helmeted man (who you had ever so creatively decided you were going to refer to as Red) had done it. You don’t quite know what it is that makes you so sure, but you are. The man, or Terminator or Robocop or Metahuman whatever it was, had no problem with killing a man who tried to mug and grope you. He said he was ‘putting him down’. Somehow, you doubt he would show criminals who dealt hard drugs to kids any sort of mercy; and you can’t bring yourself to really think that he had done much wrong- if he had done it at all. Drug dealers like that get kids hooked on heroin and cocaine, ruin lives, and you wonder if all the ruined lives they had caused added together equated to them deserving to lose theirs. Your wondering doesn’t last long before you head off to university, but Red stays in your mind all day, taking up space where you should have been focusing on your lecturer.   
When you arrive at Pauli’s you play dumb, pretending to know nothing. Well, really, it’s less playing dumb as it is you playing mute. You hear some of the waitresses commenting about heads but no bodies and don’t join in, and when you fill up the mug of a cop, in your favourite booth, his walkie-talkie crackles, a disembodied voice talking about cops in the warehouse and needing back up. You don’t talk much at all beyond the usual niceties to the customers and some basic small talk, until one of the cooks’ gesture to the tv as he handed you a plate, almost slopping the burger and cheese covered fries onto the floor until you swerve the plate up quickly.   
“Fuckin’ animals in this city.” He remarks, his spatula pointed at the flickering screen as you look up, the muted colours of the old television doing little to mask the clear distinction between the red of the blood and the dull brown of the bag. You can’t help but grimace at the sight of it, unable to mask your disgust. The chef, a large, round, sweating man notes your grimace before continuing on, “What kinda person could just kill people like that?” Your mind flits to Red, before strangely to the Joker and his Harlequin follower then Scarecrow, then Poison Ivy, then Penguin, running through a great long list of famous costumed criminals in your city in little more than a split second before you breathe in sharply. You hate how long the list is. How many people those psychopaths had murdered, but could break out of a maximum security psychiatric-hospital-cum-prison as easily as you can leave your apartment.   
“…The News Anchor said they’d been dealing drugs to kids.” You try to remark as casually as possible, but your throat is dry and you’re sure that your voice came out at a higher pitch than usual. If it did, the chef didn’t notice and just rolled his eyes while wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm.   
“Yeah, all those tv fuckers say shit like that.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes as one of the older waitresses hushes him for cursing when the paying customers could be listening. “I bet the Bat did it. Got too tired of not killing the real criminals so he took it out on kids from the Alley.”   
You think of Bruce, of how sad he had looked after Jason died. How broken he and Dick looked. How dark the bags under his eyes seem even so long after Jason’s death after he has adopted another son and daughter and found his birth son. You can’t see that tired, sad man killing anyone. Especially not so long after Jason died. If the Bat was to kill someone, he would have done it three years ago. You take the plate and nod slightly at him, carrying the plate to a table of teenaged girls, all dressed in Gotham Academy uniforms talking loudly about boys and homework and teachers you haven’t thought about in years. You smile at a girl who’s listening more than taking part in the conversation and place the plate in front of her. Her eyes widen, but then she smiles back up at you and tucks a mousy brown strand behind her ear. You walk off as she begins talking to the other girls, trying not to be jealous of girls who look to be around two or three years younger than you. Oh to be young again. 

The pattering of rain against the window makes you smile, watching the droplets explode on contact with the pane of glass until warm hands take your own, pulling you out of your own head, eyes flitting down from the glass. Green gloved hands squeeze yours and tug slightly, leading you from your bed and toward the fire escape, only pausing to push the window up and help you to climb out of the window and onto the fire-escape. The metal frame is wet and icy cold against your bare feet while you follow the primary coloured boy up onto the roof of your parent’s apartment building. The sky is inky black around him, and the fluorescent light of the street lamps and the neon glare of club signs make him visible to you, putting a slight pink glaze onto his hair, cheeks and the side of his body. When he settles onto the ground and beckons you to his side, there is nothing that you can do but sit beside him, even if you cringe slightly when your pyjamas begin sticking to your skin. It’s cold, quiet, and wet but his hand rests warm and firm on top of yours, keeping you grounded as your eyes gaze out at the dark outline of the city out in front of the two of you; the feeling familiar and alien all at once. From up here, Gotham is almost pretty even through the heavy rainfall and harsh winds, flashes of red and blue neon from street-signs painting the puddles so that the once dark and dismal city is practically technicolour, and there’s something unearthly about it in this witching-hour. For once the city is beautiful and still, three AM has left Gotham in a beautiful sleepy position- no traffic or pedestrians to make sound or distraction, just you and the domino-masked boy’s breathing and the gentle patter of rain on your surroundings. Your head tilts slightly, and then just leans on to the boy’s yellow cape covered shoulder, letting you breathe in the smell of dissipating menthol cigarettes, blood and sweet lavender laundry detergent. Even while wet the stiff yellow fabric of his cape crinkles and digs into the flesh of your cheek, his head tilts to lean against your own and you swear to yourself that, in this peaceful sort of silence, you can almost hear his smile. Your eyes slide up to gaze at him and, even with the rain that keeps his tanned skin damp and his coal coloured curls plastered against his forehead, his smile is beautiful and your eyes prick with tears, but you don’t know why. When his lips press to yours, cold and chapped, for a brief moment you feel alive…

You wake up suddenly, letting out a soft gasp as your eyes flicker open to take in the darkness of your bedroom. The comforter, blankets and pillows that had been neatly arranged around your bed were now in a state of disarray, sheets in crumpled heaps around the bed, and pillows littered around the floor. Eyes narrowing to adjust to the blackness that surrounds you, you gnaw on your bottom lip and try and make out what it was that had woken you up. You blink again, and breathe in deeply to try and calm down, the smell of lavender laundry detergent wafting into your nose, and your dream rushes back to you all at once.   
You haven’t dreamed of Jason in two years but now, with the ruby and silver robin pendant pressed against the left side of your chest, he returns to your mind in the moments when you can’t think of anything else. It’s been almost four years since he died, and even now you can’t just… Let go. Your cheeks feel wet before you even realise that you’ve been crying, pushing yourself up wearily, you drag the pads of your fingertips across your cheek to wipe away the stray tears dripping down your warm cheeks. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, your eyes droop shut once more and you let yourself slowly slink back down onto the mattress before stopping suddenly at the feeling of a breeze against your bare arms. Strange. You know that you made sure to shut your bedroom window before you went to bed; but sure as hell, the window is wide open with the curtains pluming outwards with the breeze. With each of gust wind, snow blows into the room and onto your window ledge and the floor just in front of it. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Snow in April. Either climate change was stepping its game up or Mr Freeze was out of Arkham, and you hope that it’s just global warming. Staggering forwards, with the warm, large comforter wrapped around your shoulders, you lean in to see the window wide open, with scratches on the lower section of the wooden frame, as if someone had been stood on your fire-escape and had forced the window open to try to climb inside. Instinctively, your hand flies up to your mouth to cover it in shock before flying to the window to try and slam it shut before stopping sharply at the sight of bright red stark against the darkness of the fire escape beneath the window frame.   
There, laying there, with one hand resting on the bricks jutting out beneath the perspex frame, was Red, his other arm draped around his stomach; quiet, mechanical groans slipping out from that Crimson helmet. You stare down at him, and he turns his helmeted face to look at you, letting out a chuckle that is intermediately human and mechanical; like his voice modulator was only just able to function, flickering off and on with every other syllable.   
“…Well hey there.” He said softly, leaning up ever so slightly before groaning in pain. “…Fancy seeing you here.” The voice was definitively masculine, deep and soft in the sort of way that makes it difficult for you to be able to determine the age of the vigilante. In the faint orange light of the street, you can see the spreading dark stain across his torso.   
“…Holy shit.” You whisper softly, staring at him. “…W-what…”   
“…You do me a favour, Doll? Let me in?” He rasps, pushes himself up, then leans into your window, causing you to teeter backwards to try and give him enough space to get inside. One combat boot covered foot dropped to the ground, followed slowly by the other as he managed to, with what seemed like a great deal of effort, push himself into your bedroom. “…What… What’re you doing sittin’ up in the dark?” He snorts, “That what you like to do? Get into trouble and sit in the dark?” You want to insist that you don’t get into trouble and that you aren’t some weirdo that sits in the dark in the middle of the night- but no words come out. He still looms over you, even while slightly hunched to hold onto his stomach, you assume he must be a good 6'3 or so when he isn’t in pain, and you have to tilt your head up ever so slightly to look up at him.   
“…How did you find my apartment?” You ask softly, brushing some of your sleep-mussed hair away from your still wide eyes, keeping at least a foot away from him so as not to be too close to someone who you know is a killer.  
“Just climbed onto a fire escape and climbed until I collapsed.” He said, brief and casual enough for you to assume that he’s lying to you. “Guess I just got lucky that it was your apartment, Gorgeous.” Your cheeks flush at the compliment, and you hate yourself for it. Criminals, even the ones who killed people who tried to assault you, shouldn’t be able to make you blush; especially when you’ve never even seen his face. “…You still got a first aid kit?”   
You do, a small one mainly filled with bright, pop-culture printed band-aids and nothing that you think would help this man in front of you. No disinfectant, or things to help with stitches, or any bandages. And so you simply tilted your head before shaking it, finding it easier to just lie than admit to your lightsaber, Hello Kitty, Superman, and Disney themed band-aids to this vigilante. With the shake of your head, the helmeted man let out a quiet little groan and settled down onto your bed and peels off his jacket to rub at his bleeding chest. Even in the almost pitch-black of the bedroom, you could see the blood trickling down his defined chest and towards your bedsheets; thin, white moonlight catching the blood. “…You mind if I take my head off?” He asks, that crackling, half mechanical voice catching you off guard.   
“…W-what?”  
“The Helmet. You mind?” He repeats and you can do nothing but shake your head, and he nods, arms rising and pressing down on some sort of catch behind his jaw, the sound of compressed air being released from the helmet as it separated and was then pulled off, dropped off onto the bed beside him. In that barely present light, only certain aspects of his appearance could be made out; long eyelashes, freckles across his cheek, a strong jaw… and you clench your fist, recognising the facial features as those of the man who had sat across from you in Pauli’s. The man who had your necklace, when it should have been buried with Jason. Something in the back of your mind reminds you how when you had initially seen the man he had reminded you of Jason, but you push it down in favour of crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes. Searching for words, you come up with nothing and so just stand there in silence as he sighs, his head turned toward the framed picture of you and Jason on the wall, amongst other pictures of you and other friends over the years. “…Cute Picture.” He says softly, black strands falling into his eyes. You open your mouth the say something but when he smiles up at you your heart stops because that smile is too familiar. The same smile from the photo on the bedside table.   
“…Jason?”  
“…Hey, birdie. Miss me?”


End file.
